Letters from Deer Camp

MISCHK Letters from Deer Camp

After I moved to Ely in the late 70’s, I met dozens of interesting characters – some born here, some transplanted at the “end of the road.” Mischk was one of the early unique people I got to know. April 5, 1984 Buck I’ve told you about many of the people I’ve met here in the Ely area. One of the first that I crossed paths with was by being associated with him during the early years at Ely Memorial High. Mischk was the biology teacher, football and track coach.

Conservative in his coaching but progressive in his politics, he had a passion for the outdoors that matched mine. He came from a farm in southern Minnesota but adapted particularly well to the north end of the Iron Range and took full advantage of the hunting and fishing this part of the state offered.

My first impressions were mixed. A bit less than average in height and a bit more than average in weight, his quick smile and friendliness were hard not to like.

He drove an old yellow pickup that hadn’t been washed or waxed in years, sported a few dents and whose floorboards had long rotted away under the driver’s side feet.

Though generous with his money, that generosity didn’t extend to vehicles that he owned. He once told me of a car he spent $1,000 for whose engine blew up on his way home from its purchase. “I’ll never make that mistake again” he vowed!

The hole between his feet served as a depository for the ashes of his yellow-bowled pipe and the sunflower shells from the seeds he ate. Mischk had few vices – he didn’t drink, and he didn’t gamble. The lack of burned pipe tobacco inside the truck and absence of spent sunflower husks did speak to years of practice to his exceptions.

His biggest downfall was his love of fishing. There are only two people in this world that I know who had such an addiction to wetting a line with a hook on the end – Mischk and my friend Tom Deering. Mischk could sit in a boat or canoe for hours. He had to have the strongest bladder of anyone I’ve seen. It didn’t matter whether the fishing was good or not, he would always be counted on to be the last to say “I’ve had enough. Time to go home.”

Being a coach, he had a bit of competitiveness when out with others chasing walleyes. I have to think there was a bit of math teacher in him from the way he could keep track of how many fish anyone in the party might have caught. Ask him any time during the outing how many were on the stringer, he would say “Let’s see - Wetz caught six, the Nor-Vee-Gen caught four, Hoops had two and I’ve caught 13.” I never saw any notches carved into his canoe paddle, but they must have been there somewhere.

Wetz would occasionally poke the bear and give him an inflated number in response. Mischk’s lips would purse and curl – not wanting to dispute him, but would relax when Wetz would finally ‘fess up.

He brought me up to Pipestone Bay early that first summer and taught me how to catch walleyes.

It was simple really. But a few subtle pieces of the puzzle were important. He loved to fish with nightcrawlers on a Lindy Rig.

Bottom fishing in the Boundary Waters is tricky, and losing a dozen rigs during the course of a day was not unusual. Commercial Lindy Rigs are expensive, so he made his own. Starting with a #8 swivel, he would tie about 18 inches of 6-pound test onto it and attach a bare #6 bait hook to the other end. For weight he would place either a ¼ oz or 3/8 oz walking sinker – cast at home - just above the swivel. A full nightcrawler with a little puff of air introduced with a worm blower would complete the set up. A Lindy Rig from a bait shop would cost 75 cents. His home-made ones, less than 15. His attitude on the cost of his cars spilled over to his terminal tackle as well.

Now, here’s the important part. We would move slowly – either by him back paddling or by drifting – alongside a reef coming out of deep water. Practice was needed to tell the difference between the sinker bouncing off a rock or the soft tug of a walleye sucking on the bait. Making a mistake would mean either a break-off and a lost rig or missing a hook set on the fish we were after. If a walleye was the “guess,” releasing the line and stopping the drift would allow our prey to take the crawler deep enough to allow it to be hooked.

How long? Mischk had a technique that worked well for him. As soon as he felt a “tap” he would drop his line, light his pipe and smoke a bowl. When the tobacco was totally burned, it was time to set the hook. He seldom missed a fish. It was a bit tougher for me because I didn’t smoke and felt that I couldn’t ask him to smoke a bowl for me while I waited for my walleye to finish his meal. I wasn’t nearly as successful in hooking up. It takes years to master the technique.

Mischk was just as intense with his hunting as his fishing. He had one stand in the backcountry that he believed in. He would walk in before daylight with a sandwich, a thermos of coffee and a “pee” bottle. He would have stashed a sleeping bag at his stand and would curl up inside and stay all day until after dark. Over the course of a season, he would hunt every day like this until an unsuspecting buck would finally wander by. Though sometimes it would take several days, most years he was successful. I know of no one else who could tolerate so much time sitting in one place for so long.

Of course, in our part of the world soft water turns to ice for much of the year. That didn’t keep Mischk from wetting a line looking for fish. Walks and skis into the backcountry in search of northern pike and trout would be the entertainment instead of sitting in an easy chair watching TV during the winter months. Just as with dragging the bottom for walleyes in the summer, he had his own ways of catching fish in the winter.

One of his favorite methods would be to make his own little “darkhouse” to watch what was going on beneath the ice. After auguring a hole, he would put his cisco or jig down toward the bottom, lay flat on the ice looking through the hole and pull his winter coat over his head. He could easily see what might be swimming ‘neath his hole. He used this to not only be entertained but to observe fish behavior and decide what color or lure action might be the most successful. We could kid him unmercifully about doing this but would always take advantage of what he might observe.

You might question how he could spend hours laying on the ice like this. Mischk had a wonderful internal furnace. You could always tell who he was from a distance on a winter trip because there would be a cloud of steam rising from his uncovered head as he made his way across a lake.

As coaches, we would always talk about athletes who played for us. One way of describing talent was to describe them as “quarter horses” or “plow horses.” Quarter horses were the “elite” athletes – the fastest, strongest and most talented. While the top performers could do incredible things, they also tended to be injured more easily and more often. The “plow horses” were those who slugged it out in the trenches. They relied more on brute strength and stubbornness than athletic talent.

As such, they tended to become injured less often. Their bodies could put up with a lot of abuse and keep pushing on. Mischk considered himself a “plow horse,” and one such foray into the back country bore this out.

Mischk, the Nor-Vee-Gen and I were going to ski into Garbage Bay on Basswood to try to catch some northerns one day in March. Mischk drove his car. We would start at the Wood Lake parking lot, ski down the trail to Wood then Hula, along the portage to Good Lake and finally into Basswood. It was a trip we’d made many times.

There was a steep hill with a turn to the right at the bottom just as you left the parking lot.

The Nor-Vee-Gen went first and after a few seconds he yelled that he was safely out of the way.

Mischk took off next and I could see him disappear around the turn but then heard a terrible crash!

Mischk let out a moan that I’d never heard before. I knew it was bad. I took off my skis and ran down the hill. It was instantly obvious what had happened.

As he rounded the curve, his left ski caught the brush and tried to split him in two. He had come to rest off to the side and tangled in the tag alders. At first look, his skis were parallel and together.

It wasn’t until I got to him that I realized his right ski was pointing forward and his left ski was pointing straight backward. Ouch! Between broken bones, pulled muscles and ripped tendons this had to put him down for weeks if not months.

I took his skis off, and we sat there for a bit to let things settle.

We both knew he was going to need help to get back to the car.

The Nor-Vee-Gen had continued, and he wasn’t going to stop until he got to Wood Lake. As I was contemplating whether I’d be able to pull him up the hill he said, “If you can get me to my feet, I think between my ski poles and you giving support, I can get back to the car.” We did.

When we got there, I told him I’d ski to Wood and bring the Nor-Vee-Gen back so we could take him home. Nope. Mischk, never the one to impose on anyone, figured he could get himself home. His plan was to get to his house, have Sue bring him to the hospital and then have her pick us up at the parking lot after our day of fishing. He was adamant, so I agreed.

The Nor-Vee-Gen was indeed waiting on the creek leading into Wood Lake. I told him of the plan, and we continued into Basswood. As I recall, it wasn’t our best day of fishing, but we caught a few.

Setting a target of 5 o’clock to be back at the parking lot, much to our surprise there was Mischk sitting behind the steering wheel with his left leg propped up and a smile on his face. Come to find out, he was feeling better by the time he got into his yard, spent the afternoon on the couch and came back to retrieve us! He never went to see a doctor!

He hobbled for a few weeks but seemed to suffer no long-term effects. Though in the long run it didn’t slow his winter fishing down, I believe it was the last time he put skis on to make a trip. He still goes as often but walks or snowshoes these days. Plow horse it is!

Mischk has continued to be a friend, fishing companion and mentor to this day. Fortunately, most of the “unique” characters up here carry many of the same attributes. Buck, I’ll tell you about some of the others in due time.

Meanwhile, take care!

Hoops A big “thank you” to Scott Hren for the caricature of “Mischk”!